


bedsheets washed in gasoline

by That_Adorable_Fox



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Arson, Oma Kokichi Needs a Hug, Other, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Adorable_Fox/pseuds/That_Adorable_Fox
Summary: Ouma needed to get them back.  And he’d have to do it alone.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi & DICE
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	bedsheets washed in gasoline

The bare mattress was a lot more comfortable than it looked.

Springs were popping out of the frame, and sure it was a beat up and dirty, but it was still comfortable enough for Ouma.

The apartment was quiet. It had never been quiet, not when DICE was around. Everyone was always saying something, the TV was always on despite the ever-growing electricity bill, people were always arguing in that taunting, sibling-like way. 

There had always been someone still in bed, snuggling under the covers with someone else as they rubbed their back or braided their hair.

But they were gone. They were gone, they had been for weeks now.

Ouma couldn't sleep in the apartment anymore. The day he had gotten back after that god awful day, he had curled up in the sheets alone. Everything was too cold, too empty, too silent. No one was snoring or sleep talking, no one was cuddling together, no one had their head snuggled into his shoulder. It smelled too much like them. Too much like them and how much of a _failure_ he was to them.

So Ouma stripped the sheets. He tied them together with leftover rope and doused it in gasoline. He brought it to the darkest, most abandoned warehouse and made a trail with the flammable liquid. He wrote out all of his sins and his hatred with it. He had cursed the government and the police, he cursed himself, and he finished the canister off with their symbol, the smile curved downwards into a terrifying frown. 

He had lit a match and threw it.

The fire that had blazed was warm, so warm. Ouma could still remember the hungry flames licking at the cuffs of his white uniform, staining them with ash and regret. He had smiled and laughed and chucked the canister into the flames. 

He had run, agile and brisk, out of the warehouse. The grin he held was so big it hurt his cheeks. His teeth had felt like they would have cracked from how hard he was clenching them. 

The warehouse exploded just after Ouma ducked behind an abandoned car. Alarms blared and screamed in his ears. He had run home, climbed the fire escape and slipped in through a boarded up window. 

And now here he was. Laying on a bare mattress in their shitty apartment on the outskirts of the city, stinking of gasoline and fire.

That event was weeks ago, but the ringing in his ears and the smoke in his clothes wouldn't go away. 

So he laid on the mattress, letting his mind wander. His toes and fingertips had gone numb with cold, and he could feel a massive dizzy spell brewing behind his eyes, waiting impatiently for him to sit up too quickly so he could be plunged into the twisty darkness of hunger and iron deficiency again. 

Ouma needed to get them back. His foggy mind was working, coming up with plan after plan as doubt shot each one down. Breaking into and out of jail…that would be the biggest heist he’d pull. And he’d have to do it alone. 

But he would do it. He had to get them back.

… 

… 

But to do that, he needed to get out of bed first.


End file.
